


From a damaged church, I brought an angel

by mysaldate



Category: Makai Ouji: Devils and Realist
Genre: 1st person view, Gen, Letter form, inspired by a song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-14 02:46:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18043979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysaldate/pseuds/mysaldate
Summary: From a damaged church, together with a box with a piece of soapI brought an angel, who's wings were brokenHe gave me a devoted look, I was a bit nervousAnd so I pressed into his hand an empty perfume bottleInspired by the song Anděl by Karel Kryl





	From a damaged church, I brought an angel

Hello.

I am really glad you are reading this, whoever you are. I have a story I would like to tell you. A story of an angel. I am... no, it doesn't really matter who I am. I am a human, that's all you need to know. I never was a religious person. And I never believed in angels, demons or such creatures, although I believed there was something bigger than us. I wanted to believe would be the exact term. But don't we all believe something simply because we want to believe? Those without faith are really sad people and I feel very sorry for them. But I am sure that after an experience such as mine, anyone would change their mind and start believing. So what happened, you ask? I would like to know the details myself but I wasn't granted that pleasure. He would not tell me much, no matter how many times I asked him. He indeed was the most loyal of all creatures I have ever met. That's why I don't blame him for not warning me or for not letting me know of the things I would like to. His unkind nature was nothing but a mask to hide his confused feelings and loneliness. And I know all too well he is still up there somewhere, watching over me.

Now to the story itself. It all started on a very unexpected place. I found myself on a battlefield. Of course, I knew all too well how I got there. Fighting like any other young man for my country's sake. This isn't one of those stories where the main character loses their memories and has to find out who they are. I'm not even the main character in here. Wandering around the destroyed land did not bring me the peace I expected. This was the result of the war, of our victory. Why did it not bring me joy like I wanted? In those places of destruction, I eventually came to a village. Or to what remained from one. The houses were a mess. Streets were cracked or all blown up. This was worse than any sort of ghost town because this was a reality. Not something created in Hollywood to scare people. And people I was fighting for were the ones who caused this. Recognizing any building at all was difficult. There was only one I noticed immediately and knew what it used to serve for. In the middle, surrounded by a big square, stayed damaged remainings of a church. I gulped down whatever pride I still had as an soldier and took my helmet off as I watched the ruins of this once beautiful building. Taking hesitating steps in there was harder than I ever thought it would be. This was a holy land, even though I didn't believe in such stuff. The atmosphere was just crushing, cursing anyone who disturbed the dead peace of the place.

That was when I saw it. There was blood coming from under one of the crushed pillars. Was someone still here? Weren't the people evacuated? At that point, I did not care that this was my enemies' land. Whoever this was, they were hurt, if not dead, and needed help. Of course I couldn't move the entire mass of stone by myself. And since the others already left, I didn't have much of a choice. Taking some stick I found lying around, I used it as a leaver to clean the smaller rocks out of the way. Finaly I was able to see at least something. It seemed as if something was holding the rocks from falling further down and crushing the person bellow them. What a relief! But as I finally got to the top of the rocky mountain, a small white feather fell from between the stones. Confusing as it was, I paid no attention to that. I was too focused on my task to care about something so tiny. The stones eventually fell appart and set the person bellow free. And that was when I first saw him. He was laying on the floor, legs pulled close to his chest hugged by his arms and the expression so pained it made me feel guilty.

But the first thing I noticed about him were the once beautiful wings, now broken multiple times from the falling stones, on his back. For the first time in my life, I actually doubted my own eyes. I kneeled down to him and gently traced my hand over his cheek. He was warm, as any human would be. His brown eyes moved on me. The look in the, was desperate for help. It was a silent call for salvation. And I knew I couldn't just leave him in there. He wasn't one of those children you see in books, instead a fully grown man. But even so, there was something childish about him. Maybe it was the way he clenched his own knees, maybe it was the innocent begging look in his eyes, I can't tell. I asked him to sit up but he didn't seem to understand me. As gently as possible I wrapped my arms around him and leaned him against my chest. I knew the broken wings needed to be corrected and returned to the right angles, no matter how much it would hurt. I didn't want to make him feel any more pain though so I stayed moveless until I knew he fell asleep in my arms. Such naivete was also childish. He should had been afraid of me, not let me see him in such a vulnerable state.

Till this very day I feel sorry for the painful way I woke him up by correcting his wings. His voice was so gentle and tender I really felt like holding a child for a moment. He didn't have any strenght left to fight back though. I made sure to let go of him as soon as his wings were at least in the right shape again. I let him pull away and gave him the time to calm down. Only then did I come closer again. As a soldier, of course I had some basic first aid stuff with me so I could at least bandage his wings, surprised he even allowed me to touch them. Thinking back about it, he must had known I did it for his sake. Angels aren't stupid and neither was he. I remember how tender his feathers were. It was like touching wool mixed with a bit of silk, fragile and gentle like a cobweb. He sat before me, crossleged on the cold marble floor of the destroyed holy building and tears fell down his face. Why did even an angel have to suffer for human war? I asked that myself often since that day. And I can tell you that I had never once felt more ashamed for being a soldier than I did at that time, wrapping simple bandages around the white wings.

Then I went to wipe the tears off his cheeks but he wouldn't let me. His weeping wasn't about his wings, the pain was not that horrible anymore. Later on I learnt the reason. The church he called his home had been destroyed. His wings could now no longer even carry him to Heaven. He lost all the safe places he knew. Indeed, like a small child that got lost. Pittying him, I couldn't help but embrace him tightly and hold him till he, once again, fell asleep. Then I picked him up in my arms. I couldn't just leave him in there. The place was a mess as it was and there was no need for him to stay there for any longer. Blood was no longer seeping through his clothes, I think his wounds closed by themselves. At least he was calm now. I wanted to make sure nobody ever hurts this pure creature anymore. At that time, I could not think of anything better than taking him secretly into my room in the in the training camp. Setting him on my bed on his stomach, I just sat beside him and watched his back rising and falling due to his rythmical breathing.

He woke up next morning, surprised by where he was. I brang him some rucks for breakfast and I swear to God I had never seen more thankful look in anyone's eyes than the one of his as he ate the hard bread. Of course he was hungry, he had nearly died just the day before. But he still didn't say even one single word. I assumed he couldn't speak, not in my language at least. Every movie, every book that ever featured someone facing a similar language barrier always showed one thing. I raised my hand a pat his brown locks before pointing to myself and slowly saying my own name. His tilted head and focused expression as he raised his own hand and covered mine with it made me wonder whenether or not did he get my point. But as I already wrote, angels aren't stupid. He held my hand for only a bit before he pulled back and with a small smile held the hand to his own chest. His lips trembled as they parted. And I found my hands trembling too in expectation of hearing his name and his voice for the very first time. The quiet word was the first I heard from him and for a long time also the last. His name immediately filled me with some sort of pious respect even though I never once heard it before. Some things you just have to take as they come, not think about reasoning with them.

I changed his bandages and stayed with him for the rest of my free time. Whenever I was not training from that time, I could always be found in my room with my angel. He got used to the room and to the noise outside. No matter how late I returned, he always was waiting for me, quiet and loyal. And yet, I could see a spark of hope in his eyes every time I took the bandaging off and he tried to move his wings. At times it made me sad but deep down I understood. If I could, I would had returned home a long time ago. Even the winners in a war were prisoners of some sort. But to hold him down when he didn't even belong here, I refused. Thanks to my rank as an officer, I at least didn't get my room checked often. When I knew they were coming, I always took him outside and asked him to wait for me. There was never once a time when he wouldn't follow this selfish wish of mine. He also became more talkative over the time. Army and war were things the pure being could not understand. And at times, he would ask me questions, wanting to know reasons as of why humans killed each other. At those times I didn't know what to answer him and I felt very embarrassed for that. He, noticing this embarrasment, then only smiled and no longer forced me to talk. But his innocent questions stuck in my mind. I didn't want to kill after meeting him. Army became an unpleasant job that I wanted to get rid of.

There were times when he got tired, waiting for me long in the night. He would then sit on the bed with the pillow clenched tightly in his arms, trying not to fall asleep. In the mornings we had breakfast together since I got the permit to take food to my own room. We talked and he smiled at me. Then we said our goodbyes and I left. The more time we spent together, the more guilty I felt for participating in war. Or just preparing for it. How could I even keep him close if I agreed with this pointless killing? But he never judged me, nor did he ask me to quit. He spent the time we were apart by reading my books or watching birds out of the window. He loved doing that, watching them fly and hearing their songs if I left the window open. And the evenings were again spent together, if I was back at that time.

And when the time came and his wings all healed up, I took him one last time outside, in the forest nearby. I could see in his eyes that he was hesitating. Surely he wanted to return home. But he came to like me over the time. My beautiful childish angel. For the one last time I pat his head and ran my hand over his soft feathers. Then I sent him off. Once again he was weeping. If it was from happiness over his return home or sadness over leaving me, I dared not to guess. But I knew for sure that I no longer wanted to be a soldier. I left army the very same day and returned home. I never once told anyone why did I quit. I knew I would only be laughed upon. Some people might even go looking for angels in churches to make money out of them. And I know for sure I never want another angel to lose home because of human greed.

By the time I'm writing this, I can feel my time getting over. I can now only hope he will come for me and take me to Heaven with him. I spilled a lot of blood and I was a part of many horrible crimes, most of them hidden behind the prideful name of nationalism. But even so, I hope my angel forgave me. I don't know if Hell exists or if humans really have some immortal soul. I only know Heaven is real and if anyone can get me there, it will surely be him.

This is the end of my letter, I told you everything I wanted to. I can now only wait for the friend of God, if he finds me worthy seeing him for one last time.


End file.
